Admiring Almighty Gods
by Kiba Sniper
Summary: Power is all Schezo sought, but at the end of his life, he can't even beat a simple sixteen-year-old girl. The afterword commentary provided by Satan does little to soothe his wrath as his ichor runs rampant, caking Schezo in cruel humility. (TW for descriptions of decapitation, gore, and character death.)


Admiring Almighty Gods

It's all too much, but perhaps, the Goddess of Space-Time slowed down everything for Schezo to comprehend everything happening to him.

Between the stench of rot and sweat, there is copper. The metallic scent taints his nostrils, forcing them to crinkle, but the odor's heaviness is so strong that he feels like he could vomit. Even though he had become accustomed to blood's rich scent, it's swarming and suffocating him. It is as if the air in his dungeon had been replaced with eternal ichor, which Schezo knows swims in his veins.

Through the metallic aroma, Schezo's mind jolts as pain seizes his neck. It is as if he had been strangled, hands curling around his neck and squeezing so tightly for his entire body to become numb. He tries to breath, but there is only warmth in the bulges of his neck. His veins press against pale skin, but his ears register faint leaking like that of a dripping faucet.

There is weightless. As if he had become a phantom, there is no sensation in Schezo's body. He can no longer feel his shuddering legs, his feet planted firmly on the ground, his toes writhing against the cold metal of his boots, or his muscles tensing as he holds his mighty blade. Under the sweltering lights, he realizes his shadow is painfully small, no longer containing his cape or cloak.

Sweat mingles with blood, and he wonders why his face is so damp compared to the rest of his body. He had been moving moments ago, humid air beating against his dense clothing and armor, but now, a chill rushes through his chin to the top of his head.

Despite the precarious sensations, Schezo refuses to tear his eyes from her. Her pupils are like black holes devouring the deep amber of her eyes. Thin lips part in surprise, forming words that refuse to become one with sound. Ice crystals fade by her fingertips, melting and trickling down her digits to meet her long cloth bands. She marvels at him for a mere moment, but horror beseeches her, and in that moment, Schezo's hypothesis is actualized.

Her power is ripe like a crisp, red apple, free of brown blemishes or soft spots. For Arle Nadja to decapitate him, the Dark Wizard feared for more than a hundred years, he knew he had been right in trapping her. Sentencing her to face rotted creatures and mythical beasts to subdue or kill her, forcing her to run through his merciless dungeon until she had regained her powers through battles, was all a part of his grand test.

Arle is a poignant foe, and she is just a girl of sixteen. Compared to the masters of magic, the warlocks and witches he had killed, she is the brightest star in the sky, the oasis in the dessert. Taking her power would be like eating forbidden fruit and achieving the noblest of knowledge.

Yet, she recoils at her own prowess. She shrinks back, withdrawing her hand to gaze at the melting crystals lingering and chilling her skin. Arle sucks down a breath, her eyes wide like so many magicians in their final moments before his blade cut through their clammy flesh.

"Schezo," she whispers, and he can hear how rapidly her heart beats, pounding against her chest as if it were trying to escape.

He tries to speak, but he no longer has lungs. He wants to refute the sympathetic tone in her voice, remind her that he is the one who forced her to endure sick horrors, but his grin tightens as she steels herself. His head hovers above his body, and he glances down at it, watching his ichor gushing out, tainting the golden dirt with a deep, crimson hue.

Arle thrusts out two fingers, and she waits. She anticipates his next move, and he appreciates her apprehension. So many would have gloated but not Arle Nadja. She knows there is more to come, more tricks twisting in his cunning brain.

Schezo licks his lips, his eyes flaring with a passion he hadn't felt in over a hundred years. The sensation of decimation, of absolute annihilation, fuels his rampant craving for her. Burning in his mind and scalding his thoughts are his treasured opponent, a near omnipotent girl who bested him.

Yet, Schezo will fight. Even with his sword stained with his blood and his body slumped over on the ground like a nameless corpse, he must carry on for the sake of her tangible power. She beckons him to come forward, her fingers twitching and challenging him to make the best of his final spell.

Without a voice, Schezo roars. Areiado, his strongest spell, pulses out of his mouth like an almighty black hole. Ebony and cobalt magic swirl together, forming a cosmos with a small planet protected between rings. It bursts, thrusting outwards and encompassing the dank corridor with a brilliancy like no other.

He wants to laugh as she is devoured, but again, the Goddess of Space-Time looks down on him with pity. Again, as if the world is moving in slow motion, Schezo takes the time to realize what is happening.

Arle stares down the oncoming blast, and she raises her hand out as if she were saying farewell. Pulses of white, fiery magic surround her as if she had summoned small suns. Schezo wants to recoil, blinded by her display, but his eyes remained wide. She is the exact antithesis to his boldest move, countering his dark magic with beautiful light.

Thrusting her hand forward, Arle bellows, "Jugem!"

Her spell blasts forward, decimating his strongest magic in a heartbeat, and heat rushes for him. Schezo opens his mouth, his silent scream echoing off his tongue as she strikes him. Her spell, empowered like erupting sunspots, melts his skin, burns off his hair, boils his brain, and she turns him into nothing more than a chalky skull. Even if he had a voice to drown the dungeon in his screams, it would never be enough to match his malice and corruption. Despite the faintest sense of pride for her abilities, Schezo is left with vitriol as he fades from the world, left as nothing but charred marrow.

Then, his eyes open.

He lies on the ground, staring at the pristine boots of his savior only to recoil. His white robes are caked with his own blood, which is a sight that makes his cheeks flush with gray terror. Schezo grabs his sword, flexing his fingers around the worn grip and glares at his most hated enemy.

Satan smirks, crossing his arms and remarking, "So, she is the one who killed you. I'm baffled, Dark Wizard."

"Silence," Schezo barks, his voice hoarse. "I did not want nor need your resurrection abilities."

Satan tilts his head, tapping his crooked index finger to his temple. "A dead person cannot revive himself, you blithering fool. I would've thought that in your elongated lifespan that you would've figured that simple truth out." He leans forward, cutting his sharp fingernails into Schezo's forearms and lowering his voice. "If I didn't come after hearing what Arle did to you, then you'd be rotting away like the rest of those fish and humans."

Dying is nothing compared to listening to him. Schezo almost stamps his foot like a child as he snaps, "The girl! Where is she?"

"Oh, Arle?" Satan sighs, releasing Schezo. "Well, she took my dear Carbuncle with her, but I have always considered him to be a gift to my future bride. We'll be wed soon enough. Perhaps you can be my best man?"

"Do you think before you speak? Everything you just said sounds like rubbish," Schezo snarls, and Satan smirks with a careless shrug of his shoulders.

"I mean what I say. I have nothing to hide from you." Satan clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "It was unfortunate, Schezo, to have found you in that sorry headless state. You let your pride get in the way of victory. How sad."

"It was not arrogance. It was..."

At Schezo's hesitation, Satan breaks into a wide sneer. "Exactly what was it, Schezo?"

He isn't sure what to say. The influence of Rune Lord still seeping within him, Schezo bites his tongue. He turns away, remarking that he will kill Arle in their next encounter.

"I can't allow that," Satan interjects, stepping in tandem with Schezo, "when she's going to be my wife."

"You just met her. You can't marry a girl you just met," Schezo snarls, and Satan scoffs.

"Says the one who tried killing the girl he just met, but I suppose that's natural for someone like you."

Opening his mouth to retort, Schezo rubs his neck and freezes. Along his neck is a coarse scar in a discolored pink hue marring his flesh. He traces his thumb along the injury, catching Satan's saccharine grin.

"Is something wrong?" Satan purrs, draping his arm around Schezo's shoulders.

He closes his eyes, murmuring, "I suppose you left this here to remind me of my failure. How twisted."

Satan's breath tickles Schezo's ear as he croons, "No. It's more symbolic than anything else."

Shoving him off, Schezo clutches his sword, but he does not swing. His body is heavy, and his mind weighs him down, weary with death and blood. Gritting his teeth, Schezo glares at the calm demon, a being tantalizing him with power beyond his own.

Satan hums and asks, "Admitting you have developed a sense of admiration for Arle would ruin you, wouldn't it?"

The hair by Satan's curved ear is cut as Schezo plunges his sword into the wall behind him. Satan remains neutral, his masked expression unreadable, but Schezo's wrath is as clear as day. His flaring nostrils, his gnashing teeth, the tight lines between the gap in his eyes, all point to agreeing with Satan's assertion.

For the first time in his twisted life, Schezo Wegey has come to admire someone. The Dark Wizard is forced to accept that reality, and it makes his flesh crawl. Decapitation had been a fairer fate compared to acknowledging someone had the power to crush him like an ant. With Satan's subtle thrums of chuckling hitting his ears, Schezo sinks further into his acceptance and glares at the ground.

Satan grabs Schezo's blade and forces it out of the wall, rocky debris hitting his shoulder. Watching Schezo stumble backwards, Satan clutches his hand before Schezo can slip in his own pool of muddy blood. As Schezo sets his sword aside, Satan offers him a chance to recuperate.

"Only if we have separate beds, but be warned," Schezo growls, "that one day, I will also kill you."

Satan laughs, tossing his head back as he guides Schezo out of his own dungeon. "I think I have a good chance of marrying my feisty fiance before that happens, but you're more than welcome to amuse me with your efforts."

No more words are shared between the immortal beings as they trek past the corpses of Arle's slain foes. Dog men and mummies are almost burned, blistered, battered, and bruised beyond recognition. Arle had been fighting for her life within Schezo's clutches, and he tries to quell the sweltering pride in his chest as he wonders if he had forced her true potential to come forth.

Schezo sighs, head hanging as defeat sinks in to his body. The coppery taste of blood spreads out on his tongue. Her spells howl in his ears like a mad tornado. Even her accusing him of being a pervert soils his body as his blood runs cold.

He had lost to Arle Nadja, a young, schooling mage who had not faced twenty years of life. As Satan pulls him along, Schezo vows that next time will be different. He refuses to lose to her again, and when she is sprawled on the ground crying over her wounds, her power shall belong to him.

With two gods stronger than him, Schezo manages a creeping smirk to stretch into his cheek and dimple it. One day, all of that magic will swell inside the Dark Wizard. Someday, perhaps not today, but in the future, their magic will be contaminated and controlled by him alone.


End file.
